


The Dragon

by wheel_pen



Series: Miscellaneous Sherlock Stories [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Sherlock is a Dragon, historical setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3946792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s village puts him out as a sacrifice for the local dragon, who prefers welcoming outcasts instead of eating them. Unfinished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> This story has not been Britpicked. Please let me know if I get anything horribly wrong.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

John was terrified. His heart pounded and his palms sweat, and tears of despair pricked at his eyes. He didn’t really want to sob, though. It wasn’t exactly pride—he knew they were watching, but from a safe distance, and he had his back to them anyway. The thing that really kept the tears back was the tinge of relief he felt, though it seemed awful to admit to it. Why hold back _now_ , though, at the end? Life was hard, joy was rare, especially when he was carrying a secret around with him, a forbidden longing he was tired of concealing. He hoped the end would be quick; and that whatever came next would be better. Not much he could do about either one now.

The night was cloudy; he couldn’t see the stars. He could hardly move at all, he’d been tied so tightly to the stake. Vaguely he hoped his mother would be alright; there were bound to be rumors and suspicions when _both_ her children had been sacrificed to the dragon. She had certainly been vigorous in playing up her role as a victim, though, so perhaps she would be fine. Idly John supposed the baker might be willing to marry her now, since she was finally free of her suspect children.

Such prosaic thoughts had almost served to calm him down when he heard it: the unnatural screech-squawk in the distance, which belonged to no bird or beast that ought to exist. John started to shiver, eyes straining in the dark to catch a glimpse of an even darker shape against the sky. With no moon or stars the moving shadows could be mere figments of John’s imagination. He knew they weren’t, though.

The noise grew louder; something large and solid swooped overhead, and John heard the shouts from the village. They were far enough back that they should be safe; that was the point, after all, of this stake on a rise above the pasture, with the sheep and cows all tucked away for protection. He could no longer see what was happening above his head, but he could feel warm gusts of air, as if from giant wings flapping. The screeching sound filled his ears, making it hard to think—well, he didn’t want to think much anyway.

Fire suddenly dropped out of the sky, orange-red, flickering and snapping as it encircled John, burning the bare dirt it seemed. He could feel its warmth but it didn’t burn, and no smoke choked him, even as the flames rose higher than his head. Curious, but it couldn’t last for long; it would be all over soon, surely.

And then a dark shape appeared in the flames—the shape of a man, wavering but becoming more distinct. He walked through the fire like a man might walk through a field of wheat, and stepped out into the bare ground around John as if from behind a curtain. John gaped at him, wondering if this was some kind of death moment hallucination, or a saint coming to save him.

The man was tall and slim, dark curly hair, pale skin glowing rosy in the firelight. He was completely naked, but his eyes blazed with confidence and power as he gazed at John. “Well this is unexpected,” he commented, his voice deep and rich. “Who are you?”

“John,” John stuttered, stupidly, and the man raised an eyebrow. Well, what was he looking for, a full biography? “Who are _you_?” he managed to ask.

The man smirked. “The dragon.” He stepped closer and John could feel the heat radiating from him. “They’ve got you tied up nice and tight, haven’t they?” he murmured in John’s ear, reaching his arms around him. He smelled musky and soapy and his dark curls brushed John’s shoulder as he leaned over. There was warmth at John’s wrists and then his bonds suddenly loosened, letting blood rush into his numb fingers. “What did you do, anyway?” the man inquired, slowly unwinding the rope from John’s waist. “What got you tied up here as a dragon sacrifice?”

“I kissed a boy,” John blurted, mesmerized by his bold blue eyes. This seemed small in comparison to being a dragon, if indeed that’s who this man was. Not just anyone could walk through fire like that.

“Really.” The man dropped to his knees in front of John, whose eyes widened precipitously. He touched the rope binding John’s knees and it reddened like it had been exposed to a match, then blackened and fell away. “Why aren’t there two of you here, then?” John almost missed the question, engrossed in watching him burn through the ropes around his ankles. “The boy you kissed, why isn’t he here, too?” the man persisted.

“Oh. He recanted.” John stumbled as his feet came free and the man steadied him.

“And you didn’t.” His head tilted to the side, studying John. “How interesting. Well, time to go.” He stepped backwards from John, signaling him to stay put, and vanished into the flames. Before John could decide what to do, a huge limb ending with claws and covered with red-gold scales planted itself in front of him. “Come on,” said the same voice, and John looked up to see a large reptilian head, eyes the same bold blue, gazing at him. “Haven’t got all night,” the dragon prompted. “Climb up on my back.”

“Are you going to eat me?” John wanted to know. That was the understood thing.

The dragon rolled his eyes. “Only if you don’t hurry up,” he claimed. “Don’t think about running away,” the dragon ordered, seeing John’s eyes slide sideways. “You wouldn’t get through the fire unscathed. It’s dragon fire and obedient to my will.”

Well, that seemed reasonable. “Where are we going?” John asked, gingerly putting a foot atop the dragon’s. It was like trying to climb an old, gnarled tree and in a moment he found himself tucked between two massive shoulder blades sporting wings.

“You are very chatty for a condemned man,” the dragon observed. John couldn’t tell if this was a complaint or not. “Hold on.”

With a great rush of wind that nearly knocked John off his perch the dragon took off, rising high into the dark sky. When John dared to look down he saw the ring of fire overwhelm the wooden stake and vaporize it, then vanish with supernatural speed.

The cluster of huts that made up his village, his entire world, seemed tiny as they ascended, the great woods a mere grove, the rushing river a silvery trickle. The wide world loomed below him and he realized with a start that another group of lights in the darkness must be the next village over, the one only a young man could hope to walk to in a day. They had reached it in just minutes.

John was torn between fear and awe when he recognized their destination—the Grey Mountains rising up ahead. Occasionally, on a clear day from atop a great tree, John had glimpsed the mountains. That was where the dragon came from. That part, at least, was true, even if there were a couple other things that didn’t seem to be common knowledge.

They passed deep into the mountains, fog obscuring John’s view, and he became preoccupied with the cold and wet. He dared not try to move the fingers that clutched the small horns on the dragon’s back, for fear they would never grip again.

Before he could become dangerously uncomfortable, though, the dragon began to descend, into what John couldn’t see. After a moment he had the sense they were indoors—underground? Inside a mountain? It was said the dragon lived in a cave, but this cave was huge. Below him John saw lights, and the dragon dropped down into the courtyard of a great castle, a stone monument towering above them.

“Get down,” the dragon prompted when John just sat there, staring.

“Oh right.” His hands cramped when he uncurled them and he tumbled painfully to the ground, totally missing the transformation from dragon to man.

“Are you alright?” the man asked, as if the answer must fundamentally be no.

“Sherlock!” called a new voice, and the man caught a pair of trousers thrown at him, which he dutifully began to put on. The new voice belonged to a somewhat older man, not unattractive. He gave John a suspicious look, his sharp eyes missing nothing. “Who’s this?”

“John,” the man—Sherlock?—answered, a bit cheekily, as he continued to dress in the clothes he was given. “He kisses boys.” He said this with amusement.

The other man did not find it funny, however. “What? That’s who Westwood left for us?” He was not happy. “They’re not supposed to do criminals. What’s so difficult about ordinary virgin females?” He carried a sheaf of papers and flipped through them as if checking something.

“Well, perhaps they didn’t have any ordinary virgin females they wanted to get rid of,” Sherlock suggested lightly. He reached down to offer John his hand and pulled him to his feet, but then didn’t let go of his hand. Instead he examined the fingers with a frown. “John, you should’ve told me you were getting cold,” he chided, covering John’s reddened hand with his own, which was unnaturally warm.

The other man glanced over with mild interest. “Frostbite?”

“Just uncomfortable, I think,” Sherlock judged. He gave John a little wink and a smirk, which didn’t go away when John abruptly pulled his hand back.

“I’m fine, thanks,” he said, a bit defensively. He didn’t know how it was with dragons, but obviously _his_ culture frowned on too much hand-holding among men, and he wasn’t going to get in trouble for it _twice_.

“Greg Lestrade, my chief constable,” Sherlock introduced.

“How d’you do?” Lestrade greeted John finally. “Sorry, just a bit of a surprise to see you.”

“I’m rather surprised myself,” John confessed, which made Sherlock laugh. “Where are we?”

“My home!” Sherlock replied grandly, leading them across the courtyard towards the castle gates that stood open. “Yours too now.”

“You brought me here to live?” John asked in confusion.

“Well I didn’t bring you here to die,” Sherlock promised, as if this was a silly notion. “You’re not a prisoner, though. If you want to leave I’ll drop you off somewhere. Not your home area, though,” he warned as they passed through the huge gates. “Won’t get a warm welcome there anyway.” John had to agree with that.

The main hall was high-ceilinged and grand, as one might expect, but the furniture and tapestries made it surprisingly cozy as well, the sound of conversations and the laughter of children echoing off the walls.

“John from Westwood,” Lestrade was muttering as he scratched on a piece of parchment. “You have a family name? What was your profession?”

“Just a peasant,” John shrugged.

“Well what’s your father’s name, then?” Lestrade quizzed. “Come on, lad. You know how many Johns we’ve got here already?”

“Wat. Walter,” John said, of his father. He was not sure why this information was so vital.

“Alright. John Watson of Westwood,” Lestrade proclaimed. “Can you read and write?”

“Tedious!” Sherlock proclaimed, presumably of the questions.

“A little,” John replied hesitantly.

“Alright, just trying to process him properly,” Lestrade reminded Sherlock. “It _is_ my job.”

“Do it later,” Sherlock dismissed. “I want to show him around. There’s others from his village here he might recognize.”

This thought stopped John in his tracks. “Wait, so you _don’t_ eat the people who are sacrificed to the dragon?” he demanded.

“Well, no—“

“Then you must have my sister!” he exclaimed excitedly. “My sister, Harriet, she was sacrificed a couple years ago—“ He was glad now that he hadn’t left the village afterward, though it was hard to look around and know the leading citizens had executed his sister (or so they thought).

Sherlock blinked at him and for a terrible moment John thought he was going to deny knowing her, or confess he _did_ eat a few people now and then. “Oh, _Harry_ ,” he corrected suddenly. “Blond, about so high, mouthy, wears trousers, kisses girls? You _are_ a rather unconventional family, aren’t you.”

John was not sure if all those attributes correctly described his sister, though somehow he wouldn’t be surprised. “Um—“ A group of children scampered past, distracting him. “Sorry, did they have—tails?” he asked dubiously.

“Some of them,” Sherlock agreed. “That’s the point, after all. Drakelings.”

“Drake—baby dragons?” John gaped.

“Basic survival instinct,” Sherlock reminded him. They wandered past a cluster of women who were working on a tapestry, several of whom appeared to be with child. “With a human woman only one in ten children are drakelings,” he shared. “The others are human. More or less.” John thought maybe that ought to be less ambiguous. “So you need lots of young ladies, preferably those who bear a grudge against their hometowns and are content to live here.”

“You don’t eat the women.”

Sherlock looked like he wanted to make a joke but refrained when he saw John’s face. “No, not at all,” he assured him. “Have to make it _look_ like I do, of course. But instead I bring them here.”

“And make them have your drakelings.”

“Well if they _want_ , John,” Sherlock corrected sharply. “Don’t make it sound so sinister.”

“It _is_ rather sinister,” John couldn’t help worrying. “When they grow up the mountains will be crawling with dragons, no village will be safe—“

Sherlock pulled him off to an alcove. “John, you’re new here,” he pointed out tolerantly, “so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. Can we just agree, however, that you really know very little about dragons?”

“Well—“

“You didn’t know they could transform to look human, did you?” Sherlock pressed.

“No,” John admitted.

“You didn’t know they don’t necessarily like eating humans, either. Did you?”

“The possible nuances had escaped me,” John conceded.

This seemed to satisfy Sherlock. “Then I’ll thank you to _not_ suggest my children are a murderous horde who spell disaster for humanity, alright?” he concluded crisply.

“Right. Sorry,” John felt compelled to say.

Sherlock waved it off. “Common misperception,” he allowed. “Shall we continue?” He indicated a direction for John to walk.

“Um, so, dragons _aren’t_ dangerous to people?” John hedged. It was rather hard to believe.

“Well of course we _can_ be dangerous,” Sherlock promised, as if this was a minor concern. “It would be nice if we could have a dragon city, with scientists and scholars and artists—“

“All dragons?” John checked. It was hard to picture.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock insisted. “And we could trade with the human cities, the way they all do. That would be very nice. But usually whenever a dragon shows up you just get a lot of screaming and shooting of arrows before you can explain anything.”

“Might help if you showed up as a human first,” John suggested.

“Doesn’t matter with him, _he’s_ not much of a diplomat,” said someone new, and a well-dressed man with a pinched expression and slightly ginger hair appeared around the corner.

“My brother, Mycroft,” Sherlock introduced, as though he found it painful.

“Of course the villages actually have a vested interest in keeping stereotypical dragons around,” Mycroft went on loftily. “What else would they use to frighten naughty children and rid themselves of deviants?” He gave John a look that made him feel like something squished on the bottom of his boot.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then caught John’s downtrodden expression. “Oh, he thinks you’re serious,” he pointed out to Mycroft.

“I’m always serious.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t worry, John, you may kiss whoever or whatever you like here, as long as they’re in agreement on the matter,” he promised, which did not really make John feel less self-conscious. “Do be _useful_ , Mycroft, and see if you can round up his sister, Harry Westwood.”

Mycroft’s expression soured further. “This is her brother? How did you manage _that_?” It was not a notable achievement, his tone said.

“Family’s just full of deviants,” Sherlock tossed off. “Come on, John. I think you might know Molly, the barrel-maker’s daughter?”

“Molly? She’s here?” John asked in amazement. “That’s really wonderful. She was really nice—“

Sherlock was giving him an odd look. “She was sacrificed by your pious village as a witch, John,” he reminded him.

“I think she was more interested in herbs, though, wasn’t she?” he remembered. “Saved Harriet’s life from the fever once.”

“Then you’ll be happy to know she’s alive and well, and has already had two children,” Sherlock informed him. “Neither of them drakelings, but maybe in the future.”


End file.
